


A Moment of Weakness

by apple_of_my_eye



Series: Series<~>Inception [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Dreamsharing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Night Terrors, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Post-Inception
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-14 16:00:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14772719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apple_of_my_eye/pseuds/apple_of_my_eye
Summary: After Inception, Arthur is drastically affected by guilt and panic. When Eames's flight gets delayed for a stupid amount of time and he spends the night on Arthur's couch, he sees the brunt of this panic.





	A Moment of Weakness

Arthur opened his eyes. Everything was a bit foggy, a bit too confusing, a bit too panicky for his taste. He felt the regular panic he got after each job set in, doing a head count and grabbing the PASIV. Locking the briefcase and setting it on his lap was always a comforting action, whether the job has gone well or not. He reached into his pocket and squeezed his die, feeling the weight. He sighed a breath of relief. Three things he had to check each time he woke up: people, PASIV, and totem.

 

All three were all set.

 

Arthur’s watchful eyes scanned his crew and their mark, observing them as they woke. He was the second to wake, right after Yusuf. He saw Cobb sit up and look relieved, and yet, confused. He saw Eames sitting there with his smug smile, wiggling his eyebrows at Arthur. Ariadne was smiling softly to herself, holding her bishop totem in her hand. Saito was frantically making a phone call—the reason they had all just risked their lives.

 

Arthur was happy to be back on the ground—solid ground. Both metaphorically and physically.

 

God, did he need a break.

 

He gathered his things, nodded to their flight attendant to let her know he would wire her share, and left the plane first. He strode down the flimsy hallway, disappointed that the panic in his stomach hadn’t disappeared yet. He grasped his die again, felt the same weight, and looked over his shoulder. Everybody was walking behind him, pretending not to know each other. Anonymity was comforting. He looked forwards again and took a deep breath.

 

He passed through customs uneventfully, though he paused at the baggage claim and fought back a ridiculous smile as Cobb walked through customs after him, a happy, relieved smile on his face—a smile Arthur thought he would never see again.

 

Ariadne had her bags and walked out to get a taxi, but not before giving him a soft smile. Saito was nowhere to be seen, he must be taking care of Cobb’s situation. Fischer was sadly taking his suitcase off of the conveyor belt. Arthur was glad Fischer hadn’t recognized anybody, but Arthur knew he would never forget the man’s face. Eames brushed against Arthur on his way out of the door, giving him a wide smile and a nod. Arthur felt the panic in his stomach grow more.

 

Why was he panicking? Cobb was home safe, the job was all set, everybody was safe, if not scarred, his die was perfect.

 

Arthur tried desperately to shake it as he was the last to walk out of the terminal and into a waiting taxi, stating the address of his Los Angeles apartment. He had apartments all over the world, since he would sometimes spend months in the same city.

 

He could see himself getting used to Los Angeles.

 

The taxi pulled up to Arthur’s building, and he stepped out, leaving a tip as he looked up at his familiar building. He let out a sigh of relief and walked inside. Without a second thought, he boarded the elevator and started his ascent.

 

The panic grew.

 

Any second now, the kick would happen. He was going up, but the elevator would go into free-fall and he would have to generate his own kick, since he was stuck in here. Would the security be waiting for him if he failed? His failure to identify Fischer’s militarized subconscious almost cost him the ability to synchronize the kicks. His failure to identify the first thing he should have checked, his failure caused Saito to go into limbo, his failure caused Cobb to go down there again, his failure—

 

The elevator doors pinged open and he stood there for a moment, confused. He gripped his die yet again, dropping his suitcase in his haste to feel the weight. He sighed, regaining his composure. The panic had grown and he desperately tried to keep his stoic face as he reached for his skeleton key that worked in all of his apartments.

He ignored the way his hands were shaking.

He entered the cold, lonely familiarity of his apartment, putting his bag down and sitting on his couch to untie his shoes. He placed them by the door, gathering his things again and going to his bedroom to put various items away. His toothbrush, his toothpaste, clothes, everything he had needed. He paused to look at himself in the mirror.

 

He hated the bags under his eyes, the hard lines in his forehead, and the way his lips went white when he drew them into a line. But he needed all of those awful characteristics to keep his façade to his crew. He hung his suits, including the one he had been wearing on the plane, and dressed in dark jeans and a white t-shirt. He walked back into the living room. He glanced at the kitchen.

 

He had no appetite.

 

He turned on the small television he had, desperate for a distraction against the panic that rudely did not disappear. Reality TV lit up his dark apartment—since when had it become night? Did he not turn his lights on? He reached into his pocket for his die.

 

It wasn’t there.

 

A shock of panic spiked through him, causing him to gag. He shot up, bolting to his bedroom. He filtered through all of his suit pockets refusing to acknowledge the fact that his hands were shaking so bad he could hardly open the pockets, until he found that red cube of sanity. He gripped it so hard he could feel blood vessels popping in his palm.

 

He sighed and felt tears pooling in his eyes. A job had never affected him this badly. Cobb had done incep—this thing before, it had to be possible and it was.

 

They had succeeded.

 

Why the hell did he feel like he was crawling out of his skin?

 

His telephone rang, making him jump. He blinked tears away, cleared his throat, and grabbed his phone. Eames’s name was flashing on the screen. Had something gone wrong?

 

“Eames.” Arthur said, forcing his voice to stay steady.

 

“Do you have a bed open, darling?” Eames’s voice said back to him. Arthur started a bit before he responded.

 

“I have a couch. Why, is something wrong?” Arthur asked. If he had been hurt in the dreamshare, the psychological affects could be more harrowing than the actual experience. He knew from past jobs.

 

“Not really, except the flight I was supposed to take was delayed by… eighteen hours. It used to be seventeen, but here we are… at eighteen.” Eames snapped, sounding tired as hell. Arthur winced.

 

“And you are telling me this… why?”

 

“I need a place to stay overnight so I don’t throw out my bloody back on these airport stools.”

 

“And you want to sleep on my couch.”

 

“Yes, that was the plan.”

 

“And why should I let you stay?”

 

“Because, darling, you are going to miss the melodious sound of my voice, just as I will miss your condescending tone—”

 

“I’ll text you the address.” Arthur said before he could stop himself. Eames chuckled as Arthur hung up. While he texted the forger, he cursed as he remembered the complete lack of anything in his apartment. No food, extra blankets, laundry soap, the basic necessities. He sighed again and walked to his kitchen, looking through his pantry. An old can of chicken noodle soup and a carton of pretzels that had to be stale as bone. He threw both out and texted his predicament to Eames.

 

He still had no appetite, however.

 

He wandered his apartment and decided to lend his comforter and a pillow, even if it meant that Arthur would only sleep with a sheet and one pillow. He returned to the living room, where the television was still on. He sat heavily on the couch and waited for the pain in the ass to arrive.

 

He wouldn’t mind the company. His apartments were always too silent, too everything to be bearable after a high-stakes job where his adrenaline was running. Eames is not his preferred company, however. Cobb is the only one who has seen him at his worst. The sobbing, retching, shivering pile of pathetic pity at three in the morning was always something Arthur was embarrassed by. He hated being vulnerable, showing his weaknesses. How was someone supposed to trust a point man that couldn’t sleep through the night without crying like a child? Hopefully having someone in the vicinity would calm his nerves.

 

Thirty minutes later, the panic in his stomach grew, frustratingly, again. Eames still hadn’t shown up. It had only taken him fifteen to get home from the airport. Where was the bastard?

 

Another 15 minutes. A full 30 minutes had gone by, did something happen? Had Cobol found him? No, he wasn’t even on that job. Arthur gasped into his hands. When had he started hyperventilating? It didn’t matter. Eames was hurt, and it was because of Arthur’s stupidity, and—

 

The doorbell rang. Arthur jumped a mile high and froze where he had jumped up from the couch. The doorbell rang again and again. Arthur moved slowly, answering the doorbell. A familiar voice leaked out of the small speaker.

 

“Godammit, Arthur, buzz me in!” Eames shouted. Arthur did so without a second thought, frustrated that his hands still seemed to be shaking. He heard the elevator ping open moments later, and a rough knock on the door. Arthur answered it hesitantly, not expecting to see Eames standing there, soaked to the bone and carrying what seemed to be Chinese food.

 

“Why are you wet?” Arthur inquired, taking Eames’s belongings and ushering him inside.

 

“Oh Arthur, I’m always wet around you.” Eames said in a sing-song voice. The panic grew as Arthur practically threw Eames’s suitcase next to the couch. Why did he constantly have to make those comments? There was a beat of silence.

 

“Arthur, it’s torrentially raining outside.” Eames said slowly. Arthur rolled his eyes as he went to go get a plate and fork. He paused in the kitchen. As a matter of fact, he did hear raindrops and a slight thunder overhead. He couldn’t see lightening, so the storm must be far away.

 

“So it is.” Arthur said, retrieving a plate and utensils. He walked back out to the living room where Eames had taken off his coat and was running a hand through his wet hair.

 

“Did you really not notice, pet?” Eames asked. Arthur flinched at the nickname and shrugged, placing the plate and utensils on the coffee table, taking a seat on the other chair he had in the living room.

 

“I’ve been… preoccupied.” Arthur said. Eames eyed him as he sat down.

 

“Have you eaten?” Eames asked as he opened the first container to reveal lo mein.

 

“Yeah, I grabbed a, uh, bagel on the way home.” Arthur said. Eames eyed him yet again, and then offered Chinese food. “No, thanks.”

 

“I got your favorite.” Eames said. He pushed a foam carton towards Arthur. Arthur opened it slowly. Sesame chicken, green beans, and white rice. Arthur nodded.

 

“Thank you, but I’m not hungry.” Arthur said, walking to the kitchen and putting the container in the refrigerator. When Arthur returned to the living room, Eames was giving him the side-eye as he twirled lo mein on his chopsticks, the utensils Arthur had gotten sitting unused on the table. After a beat of silence, Eames spoke again.

 

“They don’t have much of this Americanized Chinese food in England. It’s such a guilty pleasure of mine.” Eames said, shoving noodles in his mouth. Arthur blinked.  
Eames was starting to piss him off.

 

Arthur had almost sent him into limbo, and here he was acting like the past 10 hours—the past LIFETIME—happened. Arthur was starting to get concerned. Not only was Eames not as affected as he was, but the panic still hadn’t gone away. He kept feeling like a military was going to burst into his apartment and kill them. Honestly, the militarized subconscious should have been the first thing he looked up. There were probably hundreds of articles about Fischer getting it. Cobb’s words echoed in his head: “It was YOUR job.”

 

Arthur had the easiest job. Adriane had to come up with universes week after week. Yusuf had to make the compounds perfect so they would go into the perfect subconscious. Cobb had to organize everything and was in charge of everybody. Eames, for Christ sake, he had to be a new person every dream and get it exactly perfect.

 

Arthur had to type into a computer.

 

“Arthur…” Eames said. Arthur started and looked to Eames. “You with me?” Arthur felt nauseous. He didn’t want this attention. 

 

“I’m off to bed. Goodnight, Eames.” Arthur retorted as he stood. He could feel Eames’s eyes follow him as he left the room.

 

“Goodnight.” Eames called after him.

 

Arthur closed the door to his bedroom and he bit his lip furiously, trying to contain these excruciating emotions he was feeling. He kept feeling the panic grow, which made him anxious, which made him sad, which made him tired, which made him panicked.

 

It was a never-ending cycle of horror.

 

Arthur took off his jeans and went to bed with his boxers and t-shirt, pulling the sheet over him as he laid his head on the pillow. He fell asleep almost instantly.

 

He was aiming the gun at the sniper on the roof. The sniper kept hiding behind this electrical station, where Arthur couldn’t hit him cleanly. Arthur wasn’t a very good shot anyways, and since he had messed up already by not figuring out if Fischer’s subconscious was militarized or not, he couldn’t keep his hands from shaking. He heard footsteps behind him. He turned just in time to see Eames with a massive gun.

 

“You musn’t be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling.” Eames said with a smile. Arthur stepped aside as Eames aimed the gun at the sniper.

 

Suddenly, a loud crack filled the air and Eames fell flat on his back. Arthur looked down in horror.

 

A bullet wound went straight through his forger’s forehead. A smile was still on his face and his finger on the trigger.

 

“No, no, no, oh fuck…” Arthur cursed, kneeling next to Eames’s body, his hands skirting over the forger’s still-warm chest.

 

“Arthur, what the hell is taking—” Cobb’s voice came from his left side. Cobb let out a strangled gasp and looked at Arthur, an accusatory look in his eyes.

 

“He was hit, he was trying to—”

 

“He was trying to fix your fucking mess, Arthur! If you had just fucking realized that Fischer had a militarized mind, then this wouldn’t have fucking happened! You say I put our crew in danger. But you were the one that dropped the ball! You were the one who—” Another crack rang out and the window above them shattered as Cobb dropped to the ground, groaning. He went still.

 

“FUCK!” Arthur shouted. He saw a small black object sail over his head and hit the ground. An explosion boomed, throwing Arthur back. He heard Adriane scream, a horrible, horrible scream.

 

“HELP! HELP ME! OH GOD, PLEASE JUST—” Her beautiful voice was silenced with another unbearable crack. Arthur felt a gun at the back of his head.

 

“Thank you for making our jobs easier.” A rough voice said.

 

Another crack and Arthur woke up.

 

Arthur sat up with a shriek. He blinked, he tried to grab his totem, tried to grab his bucket that he had next to his bed for especially horrific dreams like this one, tried to do anything—

 

He couldn’t.

 

He couldn’t move.

 

The kick hadn’t worked.

 

He kept trying desperately to grab something, feel something, but the only thing he was sure of was the tears that were leaking out of his wide eyes. He felt a hot magma of panic in his stomach, to the point where he was sure he was going to vomit the second he could move.

 

Three things.

 

Three things.

 

PASIV: none. Cobb must have taken care of it.

 

Totem. He couldn’t grab it. That was last, anyways.

 

People.

 

Oh god.

 

He felt that panic surge through his entire body as he felt all of his muscles clench with the necessity to move, to get help, to not be alone.

 

He was going to die.

 

He was alone.

 

Oh god, he was alone.

 

Everything was shaking, he couldn’t see clearly. He let out a breathy sob, even as he couldn’t move his hand to brush it away hastily.

 

Oh god, he was alone.

 

Suddenly, there was warmth.

 

Something warm was touching the left side of his face. Then the right. He heard something, it was echoing too loudly in his brain, but he could hear something. His face was delightfully warm now, feeling the panic in his stomach calm as the warmth moved back and forth methodically on his face. Who would do this for him? Who was this? A stranger?

 

Oh god, he wasn’t safe.

 

The thought pushed more tears down his face and he let out a shout as he finally moved, lurching to the side and grabbing the bucket. He heaved profusely as he sobbed. He retched, feeling thing nothing come up but thin, burning acid. The white-hot panic had grown immensely, so much so that his entire body was shaking.

 

Oh god, he was alone.

 

He had always been through this, but he and Cobb had been in the same hotel or apartment and could help each other. Cobb would just sit next to him until he had exhausted himself and then give him drugs to knock him out for the night.

 

Oh god, he was alone.

 

His hands were shaking so hard he couldn’t grab his totem, his sanity, his comfort. He could barely move, his whole body felt like and earthquake. He needed something to ground him.

 

Oh god, he was alone.

 

“Arthur?”

 

Arthur jerked his head up, seeing a dark outline next to him on the bed. He gasped and pushed the garbage can off his bed—thank god there was nothing substantial in it—as he tried desperately to recreate his façade for this stranger. Arthur’s guns were in his closet. If only he could get to them in time—

 

“Arthur? It’s Eames. Okay? Hey, Arthur…” The stranger said.

 

No. Eames was dead.

 

“I’m not dead, darling. I’m right here.”

 

He had been talking out loud, goddammit.

 

Arthur pulled his knees into his chest and fisted his short hair with his shaking hands. The sheets tightened around his legs as he curled into himself. After a moment, Arthur reached over to his nightstand with his totem on it, desperately trying to stop his hand from shaking. Picking up the die, he grasped it firmly and was hit with a surge of panic.

 

“Go away.” Arthur said with surprisingly steady voice. Eames scooted closer to Arthur.

 

“Pet, you’re shaking.” Eames said gently. Arthur ducked his head.

 

“This isn’t reality. Kill me. Oh god, kill me.” Arthur begged, feeling his body fight against him. He retched into his lap as adrenaline coursed through his body and irritated every nerve he had.

 

“Yes it is,” Eames said, “Arthur, you’re hyperventilating, you need to—”

 

“I can’t feel the weight.” Arthur’s shaking hands dropped the die onto the constricting sheets and he gasped into his knees.

 

“Your hands are numb, darling, let me.” Eames said softly. Arthur’s hands were shaking profusely as he fisted his hair to try to get them to just stop.

 

Everything just needed to stop.

 

Suddenly, he felt Eames’s fingers gently coming into contact with his trembling ones. His head jerked up, finding Eames sitting right in front of him, hands over his own. As Arthur stared into Eames’s eyes, Eames worked his hands into Arthur’s, trying so hard to get Arthur to calm down. Eames freed Arthur’s hands from his hair, smiling softly as Arthur looked at him with wide eyes. Eames had Arthur’s hands in his, rubbing each finger, maintaining eye contact throughout the whole time.

 

The experience could have lasted seconds, hours, or days. Arthur couldn’t tell.

 

It was wonderful.

 

This was very unlike Eames, this touchy-feeling thing.

 

Arthur jerked his hands away, feeling panic rush back into his body. There’s no way in hell this was actually Eames, it had to just be a subconscious, for Eames wasn’t this perfect to Arthur, wasn’t this accepting, wasn’t this beautiful—

 

“Arthur, your totem.” Eames said insistently. Arthur placed his hands on his bed and felt around for his die. He found it, weighing it in his hand. 

 

It was familiar. 

 

Arthur huffed out a breath of relief and let his head sink into his knees. Arthur gasped into his knees, finally feeling the panic in his stomach disappearing, even if not all the way.

 

“I’m alright.” Arthur said, putting his totem on the nightstand and adjusting his shirt and boxers. He was tangled up in his comforters, his legs so ensnared he couldn’t even move his legs. It didn’t help that he couldn’t stop his hands from shaking to adjust them. He let out a shaky breath and cursed.

 

“Arthur, let me help you.” Eames said.

 

“No, Eames, I’m alright.” Arthur said. Eames sighed and pushed Arthur down on the bed, pulling the blankets off of Arthur. Eames draped them over the point man’s body as the point man made a disgusted face.

 

“Fuck off, Eames.” Arthur snapped, pushing Eames off of him. 

 

“Arthur…you were shaking, and—” Eames said.

 

“Don’t Arthur me, Eames. Leave me alone.” Arthur said, feeling so embarrassed that he had just exposed himself to his coworker, someone he couldn’t bear to be vulnerable with.

 

“No.” Eames said, climbing onto the bed, sitting on it and leaning with his back against the headboard.

 

“You’re insufferable.” Arthur said, stifling a yawn. He lay on his bed with his back to the Englishman, sighing. 

 

“Arthur,” Eames said after a moment, “You don’t have to be alone with your suffering.” 

 

“I’m not suffering, Eames.” Arthur said bitterly, curling into a ball. Eames rested a hand on Arthur’s head, eliciting a gasp from the point man.

 

“Don’t joke me, Arthur. I have never seen you like this before and I’m nervous.” Eames said.

 

“Oh, I’m touched.” Arthur said. Eames scooted down and lay down next to Arthur. He could feel the forger’s breath on the back of his neck.

 

Arthur felt Eames’s hands and his weight behind him. There was a warm feeling in his stomach, feeling safe as Eames placed a hand on Arthur’s waist. This was not normal, to be snuggling with a coworker. 

 

But he didn’t mind.

 

Arthur turned around and planted his head on Eames’s chest and pressed his body up against Eames, drinking in the attention and warmth. He hated having to be vulnerable, but hey, when would he ever get something like this again? Eames chuckled.

 

“I’m here.” He said gently. Arthur nodded into Eames’s chest, surprisingly no longer ashamed of how vulnerable he was.

 

Arthur was never vulnerable, especially not around his coworkers. He hated the idea of weakness and needing this. Eames’s hands were on him, one on his waist, one on his nape. Arthur sighed and pushed himself into Eames’s chest even further, choking on a sob of relief.

 

“Oh Arthur…” Eames said. He sounded more sad than flirtatious.

 

“I’m sorry.” Arthur said.

 

“You are being so stereotypical.” Eames said. Arthur could feel a chuckle in Eames’s chest. 

 

“I’m sorry.” Arthur said.

 

“You have nothing to be sorry for. There, I was stereotypical right back.” 

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“Stop apologizing, darling. Everybody has nightmares.” 

 

“It’s not for that.” Arthur said. Eames sucked in a breath.

 

“Then what?” Eames asked, confused.

 

“Inception.” Arthur said. Eames tightened his grip on the still-shaking Point Man.

 

“Darling, it went perfectly.” Eames said.

 

“Not that. I didn’t do my job.” Arthur said.

 

“The militarized subconscious barely affected us. It added a little pizzazz to the job, and—”

 

“Shut the fuck up, Eames.” Arthur said, pounding his fists on Eames’s chest.

 

“Arthur…”

 

“Saito went into Limbo. Cobb almost didn’t get what this whole job was for. Ariadne was IN Limbo, Jesus Christ, it’s all my fault…”Arthur choked.

 

“Pet, darling, no. Yes, you missed something. Yes, it affected lives. But, you still got everybody awake safely. The kick in the elevator was genius, darling.” Eames said into Arthur’s hair. 

 

“Eames, I…”

 

“Sleep, Arthur. You’ll have plenty of time to hate yourself tomorrow.” Eames said, rubbing the back of Arthur’s head. 

 

“That’s comforting.” Arthur replied snottily, pushing his head into Eames’s neck.

 

“Yes, I suppose it is. See you in the morning, darling.”

 

Arthur woke up in the morning to warm safety.

**Author's Note:**

> whassup guys i wrote this over the span of like 2 months so plzzzz be nice im desperate for validationnnnnnnnnnnnnnn :DDD


End file.
